


don't get so caught up.

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Breathplay, Choking, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, M/M, Magic Play, Magic-Users, Sex Magic, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 11:18:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14976059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: The Grandmaster has a confession to make - but he also has a new game.





	don't get so caught up.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: heyy if you have time could you write a frostmaster fic with breathplay pls? Thanks for reading!

“You know, kitten,” the Grandmaster purrs in Loki’s ear, and Loki shivers. The Grandmaster’s tone is low and dangerous, his hand spread possessively over the panel of Loki’s chest. Loki had been dragged onto the sofa to sit in the Grandmaster’s lap, his legs awkwardly spread over the Grandmaster’s thighs and his back to the Elder’s chest, and it is... Uncomfortable. He dislikes being unable to see the Grandmaster’s face, dislikes being forced to face the room of people around them, and that is precisely why the Grandmaster enjoys it. “Sometimes, uh, your magic...”

“Yes, Grandmaster?” Loki asks, slowly.

“Sometimes, it’s annoying.” Loki feels himself stiffen, his eyes widening, and he clenches his fists tightly against his thighs. “Oh, honey, don’t— Ha, don’t get so  _caught up_. I’m not gonna, mmm, I’m not gonna take it away permanently.”  _But you could_ , Loki thinks, desperately.  _You probably could_. “I just... You know, there’s games I’d, um, like to play, and your magic just puts a lid on ‘em.”

“Which games, Grandmaster?” Loki says, trying to turn his head, and the Grandmaster’s hand is hard on the back of his neck, forcing him to face forward again. 

“Well, that, uh, that magic of yours... You can subsist on it, no? You can, uh, you can go without food, and water, so long as you still have your magic.”

“It isn’t ideal, Grandmaster,” Loki says, trying to puzzle this out, trying to figure out why  _denying him food and water_  would be a game.

“Mmm, you’re still young,” the Grandmaster murmurs, dragging his lips over Loki’s naked shoulder and ghosting hot breath over the cool skin. “You know, I— ha, I wouldn’t be surprised if you outlived everybody on, ha, on Assguard.” That is... Distinctly uncomfortable. Something Loki tries not to think about.

“Asgard, Grandmaster.”

“That’s— That’s what I said.  _Anyway_. But what you  _can_  go without – pretty easy – is air. Right? You can just, ha, you can just hang out in the old vacuum of space, and you just... Mmm, you just  _thrive_.” The hand on the back of Loki’s neck shifts forward, and Loki feels the Grandmaster’s palm against the hollow of his throat. “But I’d... You know, I like to show you a good time. And, uh, it can be such a— Such a  _trip_ , to go without air.” That’s... He doesn’t like it. Loki doesn’t like anything that might force him to go against his natural instincts, that might trap him in a corner - bondage is easy, because resisting fetters and binds might as well be one of Loki’s godly facets, and he never  _truly_  feels trapped unless he wants to be, but this—

“You would— You would bind my magic, then? For this?”

“Aw, Lo-Lo. I’m, ha, I’m so glad we see eye-to-eye on this, you smart cookie.”

“Well, not—” the Grandmaster draws Loki’s hands behind his back, and Loki lets him, allowing the Grandmaster to arrange his wrists to pin them there, as he so often likes them to do. “So long as it wasn’t— You know, you needn’t  _bind_  it, we could simply—” There is a quiet  _click_  as metal cuffs are fastened at Loki’s wrists, and Loki gasps.

It’s not unlike being dropped in hot water. 

For a second, he feels nothing. And then?  _Agony_. It sears over his flesh like fire, and Loki feels a ragged sound tear out of his throat as he closes his eyes tightly, gritting his teeth.  It doesn’t take  _away_  his magic - instead, it stops the magic flowing through his body as it ought, and it’s sickening, as if his skin has suddenly become three sizes too small for him. “No, Grandmaster,  _please_ , I don’t— I can’t, I can’t, it  _hurts_ —”

“Oh, kitty. You know I don’t like to hear  _can’t_. You can. You  **can**.” Loki shakes his head, desperately, and as the Grandmaster tips him back onto the sofa he lets out a surprised noise, his eyes widening as he looks up at the Grandmaster. He’s frowning, his brows furrowed, and he draws his fingers over Loki’s sternum, and it feels...  _Dulled_. Everything is dull, everything is dull and ill-fitting and Loki feels foreign in his own, uncomfortably solid skin, it-- “Oh, okay. Honey, honey,  _breathe_ , okay? Inhale, once.” Loki heaves in a gasp. “And exhale.” Loki’s breath is  _shuddering_. Magic tingles over his flesh - not his own magic, but the Grandmaster’s, and it isn’t the same, but it soothes the awful burn across his skin, soothes it and makes it  _almost_  not-painful. 

“Gee,” the Grandmaster whispers softly. “Your whole... You’ve really, uh, tethered your biology to your magic. You realise that? If I starved you of magic for long enough, you’d just— Ha, you’d just  _die_. What would it take, d’you think? A month? A week?”

“Three days,” Loki whispers. He thinks of Thanos, thinks of the Other, thinks of weeks upon weeks in the vacuum of space, tumbling without his magic from one great rock to another, feeling his body get hotter and hotter, feeling his organs give way one by one, feeling himself  _dying_... And then, as the end of the third day neared, relief! Release! Magic within him, just for an hour, just to heal himself—

And then once more came the binding.

“Oh, I don’t... No, I don’t like that.” The cuffs unclick, and Loki whines as magic floods back into him, as his skin  _shifts_ momentarily, and he shoves the cuffs out from beneath him, sending them clattering across the floor. The Grandmaster clucks his tongue, quietly sympathetic, and he reaches out, cupping Loki’s cheek. “Okay, okay, honey, no... I won’t do that again. Not for  _fun_ , anyway.” Loki is shivering. He’s aware of it, distantly, but he is caught in a prison of his own making, trapped inside his own head—

The Grandmaster’s lips are against his own, and it’s like Loki is dragged into the present on a chain. Loki moans against his lips, pressing up and into the Grandmaster’s incandescently hot tongue, his burning lips, and he feels himself,  _fully_ , upon Sakaar. Thanos, the Other - all far behind him. 

“Don’t think about _him_ ,” the Grandmaster orders, the sound almost  _gravelly_  with how low it is, and Loki shivers. “You look— I gotta say, honey, with your magic bound, you panic so much that it’s, uh, it’s  _ugly_.” Inexplicably, shame pools in Loki’s belly, and he looks at the Grandmaster’s face, biting down on his own lip. Why should he feel shame? Why should a dying man be  _pretty_? “I’m just gonna... We’re gonna try something else, okay?”

“Yes, Grandmaster,” Loki whispers obediently, and he shifts his wrists where they are trapped beneath his back, one wrist over the other. The Grandmaster _smiles_ , the expression dazzling, and a little of the shame is replaced by— Not pride. _Not pride_. But delight, gladness, at having the Grandmaster’s _pleasure_ —

What is wrong with him? What is _wrong_ with him?

The Grandmaster draws a symbol on the side of Loki’s neck, and the sensation is… Strange. It doesn’t prevent the magic from flowing through him, but he is suddenly hyperaware of his own throat and his lungs, as if their regular process is locked in stone. Experimentally, Loki holds his breath.

“Oh,” he whispers on the exhalation, feeling his lungs _ache_ at it, feeling his throat stifled.

“Isn’t that— Isn’t that just _weird_?” the Grandmaster asks, amused. He pushes Loki’s legs apart, and Loki leans back, spreading his thighs a little wider to accommodate the Grandmaster’s kneeling between them, and he doesn’t bother with any perfunctory preparation of Loki’s cunt – Loki has been slicked open since he moved to the grand hall and the Grandmaster peeled off every layer of clothing he’d chosen for Loki to wear. The Grandmaster lines himself up and sinks _in_ , and Loki sighs, his eyes fluttering closed as he feels the thickness of him, the wonderful _heat_ , the sensation of being filled—

Breathing is a habit Loki has always been careful not to fall out of. Although he doesn’t strictly _need_ to breathe, anymore – hasn’t needed to for nearly fifteen hundred years, now that he thinks on it – it is subtly unsettling to most species to realise their companion’s chest isn’t rising and falling, and Loki doesn’t like to draw attention to himself, let alone to the quirks of his seiðr-changed biology.

But like this? When his lungs feel more physical than the rest of him, when he _needs_ to breathe?

What a sensation.

He is aware of every breath that comes in through his mouth and nose, the way it comes slightly hot over his tongue and through his nostrils, the way his lungs _expand_ to allow the air to enter… The Grandmaster’s hand is on his throat, and Loki stares up at him, his lips parted.

“Oh, look at you,” the Grandmaster whispers, seeming genuinely _pleased_. “Aren’t you— Ha, aren’t you the prettiest picture?” And then he squeezes. Loki tries to gasp, tries to draw in a breath, but his throat is closed up, and it feels—

“ _Ungh_ ,” Loki grunts, wasting some of what air he has, and he feels himself stiffen, then— _spasm._ His body shudders and twitches, and he lets out a mindless, desperate choke of noise, squirming even as the Grandmaster fucks him harder, fucks him— _Release_. Loki whines at the spark of pleasure than runs right through his cock, and he gasps in a lungful of air, feeling his head loll back.

“See? Daddy, ha, Daddy knows best,” the Grandmaster whispers.

“Every time you call yourself that, a year of my life just— _whoosh_. Gone. Into the ether. You _shorten_ it.” The Grandmaster laughs at his faux complaining, genuinely, the sound ringing across the room, and he begins to speed his thrusts, fucking Loki _open_ , and Loki groans. The Grandmaster’s hand tightens around his throat once again, harder this time, and Loki chokes a little, feeling himself wind tight like a spring, but this time, this time, the Grandmaster doesn’t release him. He just fucks Loki all the harder, his hips making an ugly _slap_ of noise against Loki’s arse that Loki hears distantly, as if through a tank of water, and Loki feels the same tensing, the twitching, but then…

He needs to breathe. He _needs_ to, and he can’t, he can’t, he needs—

Oh, Norns. Loki’s vision is blackening at the edges, and he can feel his body fading, feel himself slowly dropping away… The hand releases, and it’s like the universe and he are brought to together in a clap of sudden reality. Loki is dimly aware that he is screaming something, and Loki’s vision is white, his cock twitching against his belly, and he is _dizzy_ with the blood rushing in his ears, the air sudden inside him.

It’s—

Astonishing. Horrific. He oughtn’t enjoy this, oughtn’t enjoy being strung out on the brink of _death_ , on something that could kill him, if the Grandmaster chose, but it’s unspeakable. Ineffable. _Perfect_.

Loki comes on the third rush of air in his veins, and the Grandmaster rewards him with a kiss, stealing yet more breath from Loki’s own mouth and making him _writhe._

**Author's Note:**

> [Hit me up](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com/ask). Requests always open.


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